Archive, Readings
Desert Fathers 1
Below is the text of the first episode in the series Desert Fathers in a Year, launched today. You can find it in video format here – a dedicated page – and pick it up in audio wherever you listen to podcasts.
One afternoon, while the Emperor was watching the games in the circus, they went out to stroll near the city walls. In the home of some servants of yours, they found a book containing the life of Antony. One of them began to read and was so thrilled by the story that even before he had finished reading he conceived the idea of taking up the same kind of life and abandoning his career in the world.
This brief account is from Augustine’s Confessions. Augustine relates a story that a friend of his, Ponticianus, a fellow North-African, told him when they met in Milan in the summer of 386, having not seen each other for years. Ponticianus, an official at court, spoke of something that had taken place in Trier a while earlier. He and three friends had taken an afternoon off. The emperor had gone to the games. They needn’t worry about him for a while. So why not take the air and go for a walk? All four young men, gifted and ambitious, were Christians or, at any rate, keenly interested in Christianity. They were asking themselves how to live this new faith, so attractive and exacting, in a largely pagan world. Talking about such things, the four friends naturally split into two pairs. The first pair happened on the house of some dedicated Christians. Having got talking, they were invited in. There, in this house in Trier, they found a book lying about. It was the Life of Antony, written by Athanasius, the venerable patriarch of Alexandria, thirty years before. A few lines from this text were enough to turn their world upside-down. One of the wanderers began to read aloud. Stunned, he decided on the spot to re-order his life. ‘Angry with himself and full of remorse, he looked at his friend and said: “What do we hope to gain by all the efforts we make? What are we looking for?”’ These questions are timeless. They stir the hearts of sincere men in every age, as we consider our call, doubtful of the lasting worth of ambition, careerism, lust, and ask: ‘What on earth am I doing all this for?’ A characteristic of man, homo sapiens, equipped to sense and think, is his search for meaning. A man is enthralled by the question ‘How?’, which spurs him on to brave, creative enterprise. He is not satisfied, though, until he has some sense of ‘Why?’.
The story of Antony provoked this question in Ponticianus’s friend. It moved him to life-changing decisions, which had a ripple effect. The man with him decided likewise to put first things first. Ponticianus and the fourth fellow were not yet ready, but ‘moved to tears for their own state of life’. The fact that Ponticianus so eagerly shared this story with Augustine betrays a lasting impact. Augustine was no less moved. He records in his Confessions that while Ponticianus was speaking he was led to reconsider his whole existence. ‘I had’, he said, with insight we may recognise, ‘placed myself behind my own back, refusing to see myself.’ That was an option no longer. The discovery of Antony made Augustine cringe at the half-heartedness of the prayer he had long recited: ‘Lord, give me chastity and continence, but not yet.’ The time, he knew, had come to face reality, to make defining choices.
Who was this Antony, the account of whose life occasioned such revolutions? Born into a Christian family in Egypt in 251, he lost his parents young. One day, in church, he heard this verse being read: ‘If you would be perfect, go, sell what you possess and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; and come, follow me’. He followed the counsel to the letter and devoted himself thenceforth to a life of prayer, which involved a confrontation with all in himself that was disordered and subject to nefarious temptation. He lived his ascetic life for a while in his village, then in a nearby cemetery. Next, he immured himself in an old fort in the desert. He remained there, alone, for twenty years. When his friends, of whom he had many, constrained him finally to come out, they found him perfectly balanced, gracious and kind, recognisably the man they had always known, yet still somehow different. He had become ‘a man of God’, bright with something of Adam’s first innocence. Antony was not only, like all of us, created in the image of God. In him God’s likeness could be seen. It made him irresistible. Until his death at the age of 105, he was surrounded by disciples who wished to live like him. After his death, his example continued to inspire. The life of this obscure Egyptian, who died in 356, was discussed in Milan in 386 on the basis of a life picked up in Germany. The legacy of Antony had become, within three decades, a leaven for renewal throughout the empire. Could it have something to teach us today? I think so. So I invite you to join me on this journey of discovery in the footsteps of the Desert Fathers. My concern is not the scrutiny of ages past just for their own sake. My concern is with urgently personal, present issues: What is it to be a man and a Christian? Where is freedom? How can I fight my inner demons responsibly? How to be happy and a source of happiness to others? The Desert Fathers have precious advice, born of experience, to give us. They are not just ‘the fathers’ in a general sense; they can become our fathers, if we attend to them carefully, trustingly, as sons. Let’s, then, try to do that together.
Benozzo Gozzoli’s fresco of St Augustine arriving in Milan from his cycle in San Gimignano. Who would have thought this smart, fashionable young man would be attracted by the ascetic ideal?